


Wherever I Am

by SolarMorrigan



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall - Fandom
Genre: I dunno I'm having fun with it, M/M, another ridiculous version of Q's terrible childhood or something, the Bond/Q is implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 05:25:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11029542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolarMorrigan/pseuds/SolarMorrigan
Summary: Q does not have a home, he has a flat. Q has not had a home in a very long time.





	Wherever I Am

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a fill for [this](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/813969.html?thread=103353745#t103353745) comment_fic prompt
> 
> I don't know if the idea of Q having a terrible childhood is a tired one yet, but it's an idea I quite like (terrible as that sounds, going around giving people terrible childhoods) so I'm sticking to it

When Q is little and isn’t Q at all, home is the tiny flat where he lives with his mum. The carpets are a bit grungy and the heat’s a bit dodgy and the neighbors are a bit noisy but it’s got his bed and it’s got his books and it’s got his mum and it’s home.

Then suddenly his mum’s gone and he never sees the flat again.

Then the group home is his home.

Then the Davies’ house is home. Then the group home again. Then the Thompson’s house is home. Then the group home again. Then the Hall’s, the group home, the Green’s, the group home, the-

Q gives up. Q escapes. There is no such thing as _home_.

There is the exceptionally shitty (but very cheap) flat where he keeps his things. It’s as clean as he can make it, because if he has to sleep there, he’ll at least put that much effort into it, but that’s really all he can say for it. The idea of hot water is nothing but a myth, the stove doesn’t work and no amount of tinkering on Q’s part can fix it, and the landlord is a crooked piece of shit which only works in Q’s favor to the end that the man doesn’t care there’s a 14-year-old forging paperwork and renting out a flat on his own so long as said 14-year-old can pay.

And Q can pay. He works for money under the table to pay for rent and food and saves and saves on the side until he can finally, finally afford a computer – one of his very own, one of the only things he’s allowed himself to want since he’d discovered its joys in some foster family’s house, hell if he remembers which.

From there, money is easier to come by, learning to code and hack and taking as many shady jobs as he does ones above board. Money is key to survival, and survival is the most important thing.

Q doesn’t bother to find a better flat. He installs better security, but finding a new place seems tedious. This one’s familiar, it holds his things, and doesn’t need anything else. He doesn’t need a home, he just needs a shelter.

If pressed (and no one ever does press), Q might call the internet his home. Which sounds horrendously pathetic, but there’s no one around to judge him anyway.

So, settled into the most familiar and comforting part of his life, Q makes himself master of the world of the digital until one shady job leads to the ultimatum: work for MI6 or go to jail.

And Q thought things like that only happened in movies.

He does consider jail, briefly, because if he has to be on someone’s leash, at least he’d eventually get _out_ of jail; no such guarantee with government work. He settles on MI6, though, because they’re offering him the chance to work with even better computers and, if he’s _really good_ , the chance to work with something explosive.

So shady hacking jobs in his shitty flat lead to shady _government-sanctioned_ hacking jobs that lead to a better flat. So there’s that, Q supposes.

He makes himself at home at MI6 in the way only someone who doesn’t really remember what home is can. He does his job and he does it well and doesn’t get mired down by office gossip or relationships or drama because he really doesn’t give a damn. He gets promotions. He gets a cat. He buys a box of his favorite tea to leave in the breakroom, because he’s there often enough, isn’t he? For the first time in a long while, he… settles. Sort of.

He feels a sort of pang of upset when MI6 blows.

Then Q actually becomes Q.

Bond happens. Silva happens. M stops happening. Mallory happens.

The entire thing leaves an odd sort of taste in the back of Q’s mouth. Something he remembers from a very long time ago. If pressed (and psych does press, but they don’t press hard enough), Q might think to call it grief.

But then Q is busy running a department. He knows everyone’s name and he knows what they can do, but he doesn’t really _know_ any of them. It becomes apparent that he needs to.

Q runs his department and gets to know his employees and gets to know the double-0’s and gets another cat and can’t get Bond to stop wandering around Q branch and bothering him because apparently his assistance during the Silva debacle made Bond his ally or something. Or maybe his friend. Or maybe- maybe they have dinner sometimes and maybe Bond takes a liking to Q’s cats and maybe they talk and maybe Bond understands better than a lot of people what it’s like to not really have a home.

It isn’t until one morning when Q wakes up weighed down by two shelter-rescued tabby cats in a bed that has been his own for years in a flat that holds pet projects and his favorite tea and walls covered in posters and art prints that he realizes- well, it’s not exactly the flat. It’s not that specific place. Q gets to MI6 and Marnie hands him a cup of tea and Darryl brings him the specs on a new project they’re hoping to start up down in the labs, and Q steps up to his utterly familiar work station to boot everything up, and he thinks- well, it’s not exactly MI6, either. Then R hands him a headset and only has to say “007” before Q is plugging in.

“Talk to me, Q.” Bond barks over the earpiece.

“Give us a moment, 007, I’m pulling up your mission now.” Q replies, easy as breathing, and- that’s it.

That’s it, isn’t it? It’s not the flat or the workstation or the cats or the coworkers or the tea or the work or Bond- but it is. It’s all of those things, all put together, everything that holds Q up, all the tangible and intangible things that make up Q’s life. It will hit Q like a ton of bricks later, when he isn’t busy, and he’ll be floored for a little bit, because this is it.

This is what it’s like to be home.


End file.
